


Encounter Darkness

by Trobadora



Category: Once Upon a Time in Wonderland (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, F/F, Faustian Bargain, Fear, Mental Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: People who have experienced the Jabberwocky's powers generally don't come back for more. This is something new.





	Encounter Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



> I started this as a treat for you last year, and finally managed to finish it just now. Thank you for saying you're still interested, and I hope you like this!

  
_"I will encounter darkness as a bride,_  
_And hug it in mine arms."_  
—Shakespeare

  


* * *

  


No light. No voices in the darkness, no wind around her tower as of old. An empty dungeon and an empty mind, and the Vorpal Blade pinning her to the wall.

The Jabberwocky has lost before, has been trapped before, but this is worse. Not even the slain for company, this time, not even the satisfaction of knowing she made them pay dearly for their victory. Only the knowledge that she saw it coming - saw _him_ coming - and failed to act in time.

She'd known Jafar was danger. She'd still underestimated him, even knowing his goals. That mind, after he performed his great spell to break the laws of magic, after he made himself all-powerful - that mind, completely devoid of fear ...

The Jabberwocky isn't afraid of much, but that? That is worthy of even her fear.

Now she is here in the dark, trapped and alone, more afraid of Jafar returning than of remaining here forever. In fact, she hopes he will never, _never_ remember her here.

  


* * *

  


No light at all. No Jafar. Darkness and silence only. No light.

The Jabberwocky can sense fear, sometimes, at a distance. No one comes close enough for her to properly touch their minds, much less to reach inside and open that door in their heads, to find the things that _truly_ terrify them. The dungeons remain dark and empty. The only fear she can fully grasp is her own.

Then: a clang in the distance. The jabber-jabber-jabber of a mind, approaching. Fear, so much fear, and someone who knows just what it is they have to fear, too.

A familiar mind.

A door opens opposite of where the Jabberwocky is pinned. A woman's silhouette, dark against the background of light. Then, with a blaze of magic, a row of torches in the dungeon bursts into flame, one after the other, light racing straight towards the Jabberwocky.

She stares along the suddenly-lit corridor at the Red Queen. Her dress is red and sleek; her long blonde hair is loose but carefully curled. The Jabberwocky saw her slain, but here she is, very much alive. Jafar's creature? He broke the laws of magic; he is capable of that and more. It frightens her, more than the Vorpal Blade, more than the lonely darkness and the long unchanging stretch of time of her last imprisonment, threatening to be repeated.

Anastasia stares at her for a long, long moment, too far away to reach all the way into her mind. Then, abruptly, all at once, the torches die.

Darkness falls. A door clangs. The Jabberwocky is alone once more.

No light. No voices. No fear to feast on but her own. The Jabberwocky can only cannibalize herself.

  


* * *

  


No light. No fear. No people. No light, no light, no light. The Jabberwocky's mind turns in circles in her prison, and she knows she'd be easy prey for a creature like herself.

There are no creatures like herself; there is only her. She was made, but she also made herself, and there is no one else. Only ever her.

Everyone else can only ever be her prey.

The torches come ablaze. This time, there is no warning, no clanging in the distance, only suddenly this: the Red Queen, standing at the end of the brightly lit dungeon corridor, looking at her. Looking, looking, looking as her mind keeps jabbering. Or is it gibbering? The Jabberwocky never could tell the difference.

This time, Anastasia doesn't stay where she is. She walks towards her, steadily, despite the taste of her fear growing ever-clearer in the air. Closer, closer ...

A few paces away, she stops. The Jabberwocky looks at her. Where is all the red? Anastasia's dress is a pale lavender. Her make-up is lighter, too, but the largest difference is in her eyes. What has Jafar done to her? What has he made her into?

With an effort, the Jabberwocky's mouth turns into a pitying twist. "Tell Jafar -"

"He's gone," Anastasia interrupts. She sounds firm, steady, but the Jabberwocky can hear the tremble beneath, just from standing here in front of her, looking her tormentor in the eye. "We won. No more Jafar."

That can't be true. Jafar made himself omnipotent; how could he have been defeated? The dead woman walking in front of her is proof enough of his powers, isn't she? And the queen is so afraid.

The Jabberwocky turns her head this way and that, her body twisting around the blade that pins her. Yes, so, so afraid - of the Jabberwocky, and of something else. Someone else. Jafar, she'd thought at first, that looming presence. But it's not, is it? She peers closer, closer, and there's barely a trace of Jafar in Anastasia's fears. None at all in the present, only an echo of the past, and that is terrifying in its own right, but still not the same. 

So, after all, it must be true. No more Jafar.

The Jabberwocky won't show her relief. Won't show her fear - after all, who had the power to stop Jafar? And what else is the queen afraid of, more than Jafar? She won't let Anastasia see. No weaknesses to show, oh no.

"Good riddance," the Jabberwocky says, beatifically. And, because even she has her limits, "How?

Anastasia smiles briefly, reflexively. "The guardian of the Well of Wonders. The Nyx. She made him a genie, in punishment. Fitting, don't you think?"

Her accent is different, too, her natural one again, not the carefully crafted voice of the Red Queen, devoid of her Sherwood origins. It makes the Jabberwocky uncomfortable.

And the Nyx ... The Jabberwocky shudders, inwardly. Now there's a dangerous one. She met her once, just the once - a creature whose head she couldn't get into, whose mind flowed apart at her approach like water, poured through her fingers with nothing to hold on to.

"Fitting," she repeats, hisses, "fitting would be tearing his little mind to even littler pieces, which I should have done from the start."

There's a minuscule shiver in Anastasia body. She knows better than most what that threat entails. But, "You could have saved us a lot of trouble," is all she says.

Anastasia, the Red Queen, who tried to resist Jafar. Who was murdered by him, and resurrected, and saved. What is she doing here?

The Jabberwocky leans forward, as far as the Vorpal Blade will allow, ignoring the way it pulls at her. It's not a stab wound, not for her - it's magic, pinning her in place. She can move with it, but can't get away. And so she twists around the sword holding her to the dungeon wall as she worms her way deeper into Anastasia's head.

Not the Red Queen, is she, now? Something else. But if she thinks it makes her different, oh, she'll learn better, here with the Jabberwocky. Oh yes, she will.

"Red Queen," the Jabberwocky whispers, smiling. Feasting, for the first time in far too long. "Not any more - or are you? You're afraid you are." She peers at the blonde woman in her lavender dress, even her make-up changed, trying to be someone new. Her recovered accent - a pretence fallen away, or merely a different one? Anastasia has asked herself that question, oh yes, she has. "But I know," the Jabberwocky continues. "Made up different but the same inside - I can see it all."

She doesn't even need to go too deep into Anastasia's head. She's been through every nook and cranny, every crevice, has rifled through all her delicious fears and regrets, all her despair and self-hatred held tenuously at bay. Oh no, the Jabberwocky needs nothing new; she has _everything_ already at her fingertips.

Anastasia stares straight at her, her face tight with stubborn determination. "Jabberwocky. I'm here to talk."

Yes. That's a novelty, isn't it? _Why_ is she here?

"Anastasia. Wish for your crown," the Jabberwocky croons, quoting herself.

Anastasia gasps with the reminder. In her eyes a memory flashes, deep pits of despair the Jabberwocky once pulled her into. Yes, it's all coming back, isn't it? But she's a stubborn one, is dear little Ana. Even in the face of her tormentor, the memory of her mind's dissolution, the terror visited on her.

The Jabberwocky's had a veritable feast there, oh yes. Not enough of it - damn Jafar - but delicious all the same.

Suddenly Anastasia's expression hardens. She steps forward a pace, two, and her hand is on the hilt of the Vorpal Blade. What?

The blade is pulled free, and Anastasia is several steps away before the Jabberwocky fully grasps what is happening. The Vorpal Blade is out of the Jabberwocky's body, out, out, _away_. She is free. 

Free. No longer trapped, imprisoned for another eternity. Free.

And Anastasia stares at her, blade in hand, stubborn and terrified and with intent. Intent the Jabberwocky can't read, because it isn't born of fear.

The Jabberwocky lets herself fall away from the wall. She is crouching, peering up at Anastasia. In another instant she is on her feet, leaning over Anastasia's shoulder from behind, whispering into her ear. "Did you like me, in your mind? I can still hear you jabber. Still, and again."

Her hand is on Anastasia's, twisting -

A jolt, a magical one: her hand is whipped away. The Vorpal Blade remains firmly in Anastasia's grip. Oh no, not again.

Not again. Jafar did this to her, and she failed to stop him, failed to take the blade from him in time. She won't make that mistake again.

Anastasia stands, staring at her, gripping the blade with a white-knuckled hand. "No," she says. Just that: No.

"You think you can control me?" the Jabberwocky sing-songs. "That you needn't fear me, with that blade in your hand? Oh, but you know better, don't you?"

The blade is moving in Anastasia's hand. "I know better," she repeats, grimly, and then her hand is outstretched, the Vorpal Blade held out to the Jabberwocky. Hilt first.

What?

No time to think. The Jabberwocky lunges, snatches the blade from Anastasia's hand, twirls it in her own, before any thought. _Oh,_ she has it now, finally, the sword of her undoing. No one else will hold it again, no one will take it from her. Never, never, never again. And Anastasia ...

Yes. What about Anastasia? What is she _doing_?

It doesn't really matter. The Jabberwocky is free, and Anastasia will be easy enough to destroy. But the whys and the wherefores are spinning in her mind, all the same.

"Why?" It's not a question the Jabberwocky has to ask often. What is done around her is generally done out of fear, and fear is her domain. Nothing in it escapes her.

"I'm not Jafar," says Anastasia, her entire body practically vibrating with tension. "I won't hold you under threat. I won't give you reason to betray me."

The Jabberwocky has never needed reasons. And betrayal? She owes this woman nothing. Anastasia is just another jabbering mind to terrify; she is a feast. The Jabberwocky will enjoy pulling her mind apart, all afresh.

Except.

Except people who have experienced the Jabberwocky's powers generally don't come back for more. Granted, that's mainly because they tend to be very, very dead, but the principle holds. And if they do survive, and do come back? It's always for revenge. A futile attempt at revenge, it always is, of course. It always was, except that once, five hundred men and a hell of a lot of magic -

This, though? This is something new.

"You want something, do you?" she says. Does that matter? She hasn't decided, not yet. "How nice. What _I_ want, I can take."

Anastasia's eyes widen in fear, nervous tension twitching visibly under her skin.

The Jabberwocky is behind Ana, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, whispering in her ear. She is in front of her, staring into her face. She is all the way across the dungeon, laughing at her from a distance. She is gone entirely, for an instant, and then she is crowding Anastasia against a wall, both hands free, the Vorpal Blade safely hidden away. She snaps her teeth at Anastasia's face, and then she is peering at her through heavy iron bars, from several feet's distance.

Anastasia moves on instinct, flinching away, turning, trying to keep eyes on her. The Jabberwocky is everywhere, herding her prey, and she can tell the exact moment Anastasia realizes she is being steered, and _where_.

Anastasia freezes, spine going stiff, and the Jabberwocky laughs behind her, pushing her knee into Anastasia's back, watching her tumble into the cage. She twirls her around, like a dance, spins her into the chair still standing in here. There is a second one, toppled over, on the ground.

Here is where she broke the Red Queen the first time, for Jafar. Here is where she will break her again, just for herself.

Their dance ends with Anastasia in the chair and the Jabberwocky straddling her, hands on Anastasia's neck, thumbs caressing under her chin.

"Red Queen, White Queen," the Jabberwocky sing-songs, "always the same queen." She peers into her eyes. "Especially inside."

And _inside_ is where she goes. She strolls through Anastasia's mental rooms, through doors and walls long smashed open, the gaping holes thinly papered over and easily ripped afresh.

 _Will Scarlet, turning away from Ana in disgust. A villager spitting into her face: "You're the reason we're suffering. And now you,_ darling _, will be the one to suffer." Jafar, sneering his disdain at her, boasting of better alliances._

_Will, his neck broken by Jafar's hand. Will, dead by her own executioner's blade._

"Enjoying yourself yet?" the Jabberwocky whispers, her breath hot and wet against Anastasia's skin. Fear is a primal thing, and when she taps into it, reason falls away. The deeper, the more.

Anastasia is trembling. Her eyes are wet. "I freed you," she manages, holding on, not yet losing her grasp on reality. Because the Jabberwocky is letting her. Because sometimes, drawing out the fear is the best part. "I need you to listen to me."

"No," the Jabberwocky says sweetly. Not because she doesn't want to know, but because she will hear it all anyway, soon enough. Soon, everything of Anastasia's will be spilling out for her to feast on, and she'll enjoy every single moment of it.

"Why are you doing this?"

With her fingernails, the Jabberwocky scratches lightly downwards from Ana's chin and to her breasts. Lightly, yes, lightly, so her sharp nails leave only pretty little scrapes, thin red stripes against Ana's pale skin, droplets of blood rising to the surface. She licks a smear of blood from her fingers. "Because I can." 

"I could have taken out my own heart," Anastasia snaps, lashing out, "and you would have had nothing to latch on to."

"Could have. Didn't." Flippantly. But the Jabberwocky remembers the heartless Knave, his mind a blank to her, nothing to touch, no cracks to sneak in by. Anastasia could have made herself just that untouchable, and didn't. She's doing this deliberately, letting it happen. The Jabberwocky twitches. 

It worries her, knowing that. It makes her furious.

Another mental push, and the Red Queen is seated on her throne, her precious crown on her elaborately-styled hair, a blood-red dress hugging her figure. Her soldiers are lining the wall. It's a dull, grey day outside, rainy skies visible through the large, arched windows. Thunder claps, loud and close, in the same moment that lightning flashes outside. Anastasia flinches, tension strung too high. The Tweedles bow to her, as if in reaction to her flinch, and she looks around herself with wild eyes, confused, unsure what his happening.

What is happening is this: the Jabberwocky.

The Jabberwocky striding in, dancing in, and no one stops her. The soldiers salute as she comes up to the throne; the Tweedles bow to her, just as they did to the queen. Everyone watches as the Jabberwocky's hands reach for the Red Queen, as she throws her from her throne.

Then it's the Jabberwocky's throne: she is lounging languidly, legs dangling over one armrest, her black coat pooling on the ground. Anastasia's red, red crown is on her head, and she is laughing.

Laughing at Anastasia, who is crouched on the floor in a torn, dirty dress.

"Chamber pot girl," the Jabberwocky says sweetly. "Your mother knew who you really are. What you really are worth."

 _The only way you're coming back inside my house is to empty my chamber pot._ The words echo in the throne room, and everyone is turning, staring at Anastasia.

Anastasia's eyes are red-rimmed and wet as she looks down at the chamber pot in her hands. She is scrubbing it, frantically, helplessly, the only thing she's good for. Just as her mother said: she ran away, tried to be better, tried to be _more_ , and she failed. In the end, she failed, failed, failed at everything that mattered.

Her mother is there, standing over her, looking down at her sternly. "Even for that, you're useless," she says, her mouth a thin, sour line. "Any proper maid could do better. I should never have taken you in again."

Her mother's prophecy: Ana, crawling back and begging for the dirtiest tasks her mother could devise, only to be allowed inside, to be taken in at all. Anastasia, ungrateful, wretched child, undeserving of even that kindness.

The Jabberwocky leans forward on her throne, and the distance between them shrinks. Her fingernails bury in Anastasia's untidy blonde hair, pulling her head closer. Her tongue snakes out, licking Anastasia's lips. Anastasia clenches her eyes shut, holding still, not fighting, not trying to get away. Not even begging. That isn't right, is it? No, no, it's not.

Deeper, then.

"Remember," the Jabberwocky whispers, "the more afraid you are, the more you're pleasing me. And you want to please me, don't you? You want to be good for _something_ , don't you?"

Anastasia trembles. Her eyes open. They're very wide, and very wet. "I want to be good for something," she repeats, swaying. Her chin is wobbling, face twisting into a helpless sob.

Oh, this is precious. This is delicious. This is a _joy_. The Jabberwocky's hands bury deeper in Anastasia's hair, pulling her closer.

"Still think you could be a queen?" she hisses. "Still think you deserve better?"

And then, suddenly, hands are in _her_ hair, pulling. Suddenly _her_ head is dragged closer, and Anastasia's mouth is on hers, lips open, wet. Sucking the Jabberwocky's lower lip between hers, dragging it through her teeth. Anastasia's tongue is sweeping along the Jabberwocky's front teeth, then delving deeper. Suddenly, Anastasia is controlling a kiss the Jabberwocky didn't see coming.

She gasps, and it jolts them out of Anastasia's mind. She gasps, straddling Anastasia's legs on a chair in a cage in a dungeon. She gasps, flinching back, away from the queen. She is across the cage now, against the bars, staring at Anastasia sitting in her chair. 

Holding still: Anastasia held still for _this_ , gathering her wits, collecting herself, building up to her move.

Anastasia's head is coming up. Her face is tear-streaked and blotchy, but her eyes, wet and reddened as they are, are focused. She fixes the Jabberwocky with a stare. "I'm not a queen because I deserve it," she says, her voice more level than the Jabberwocky would have thought she could manage. "I'm a queen because I have a job to do."

The Jabberwocky blinks, grasps for control. Anastasia's fear is still there, underneath the determination that keeps her steady. She can feel it, hear it, the jabber-jabber-jabber of her mind a ceaseless, interminable rush of it, just like anyone else's. Anastasia thinks she can fight this, does she? Empty bravado, queenie dear.

"You keep telling yourself that," the Jabberwocky murmurs, stretching languidly against the bars of the cage. "You think it's that easy? It's _never_ that easy, dear, oh no, it isn't." And she strolls forward, all unconcern, bends toward Anastasia, plants a mock-chaste kiss on her full lips. Then she pulls away with a smirk.

Ana's blotchy face is reddening. A flush.

"You can't stop me," the Jabberwocky says, still quietly, almost gently. She straddles Anastasia's lap again, cups her hands around Anastasia's face. "Nothing can. Nothing but that sword, and you gave it to me. Now I have you, and I _will_ have you. I'll eat up all your silly little fears, and the big ones, too. I'll drag them all out of you one by one. You think you've seen what I can do? I was in such a rush last time, you know nothing yet."

"Big words," Anastasia manages, surprisingly steady. The Jabberwocky is just a tiny bit impressed. "You won't stop? Neither will I. And I have a better reason. You should know." A convulsive swallow. "You tried to stop Jafar, too."

"He wanted too much; I didn't want him to have it." It's as much as the Jabberwocky will admit to.

"He's not the only one who wants too much." Anastasia's eyes fix her. "She's new to Wonderland, like he was. Two months, and she's turned half the land into her chessboard, where no one can move but by her rules."

"And I should care?"

What a bizarre conversation to try and have, with the Jabberwocky straddling you and feasting on your fear. What strange words to whisper against a monster's mouth while your bodies move against each other and your breasts brush with every breath. What is this? 

"She has a curse," Anastasia continues, undeterred. "She's going to tap into the magic that sustains Wonderland, and she's going to twist it. We'll all forget we were ever more than figures in her game of chess. We'll all be her pawns, and none of us will ever again be queen."

She's afraid, desperately afraid of this new danger, just the way she was of Jafar, or more so. But the Jabberwocky is far more interested in the woman in front of her.

What _is_ this? Who is she, this new Anastasia? She's not harder; the Red Queen was more than hard enough. No, she's softer, isn't she, and soft things are far more difficult to shatter than brittle ones. What to do with her, what to do ...

"And you're helpless to stop it," the Jabberwocky mouths against her ear. Her thighs squeeze Anastasia's as she undulates against her, tilting Anastasia's head up for her access, sharp-nailed fingers tangling in her hair. "Useless, like you always are, little queen. You fail at everything you touch." 

The Jabberwocky knows what that's like, too well - her own family dead from fear, just from her presence, just because she ran home, _after_ ... It only makes it easier to hit Anastasia where it hurts. She presses her lips against Anastasia's hairline, licks at her temple, lets out a laugh at her flinch. She bites along Anastasia's chin, breathes against Anastasia's lips. "And you try and try and _try_ to make it right," she continues, "but you can't, can you? You're just not good enough."

This, this is the heart of Anastasia's fear; it always was. And the Jabberwocky knows exactly how far it can take her. But not just yet, oh no - she'll drag her there _far_ more slowly. She'll take her time.

"I'm just not good enough," Anastasia repeats, and it should be a surrender, should be a fall, but it's not. Not yet. Anastasia is shivering, hovering at the edge of a precipice. All it would take is one little push ... but the Jabberwocky doesn't give it, not just yet. Anastasia clenches her teeth in determination, pulls herself onto firmer ground. "I know I'm not. I tried, and I'm not. That's why I've come to you."

The Jabberwocky stares. Her eyes meet the queen's: marked by tears and terror, but firm, controlled, determined.

"If there's magic strong enough to defeat her," Anastasia continues, "it's not in Wonderland. So we need to bring her down another way. I know what you can do, better than anyone."

The Jabberwocky keeps staring.

"Do you want me to beg? _Please._ " A strange quirk of her lips, as if the word came easy, which it can't. "I'm sure people beg you all the time. But it's not usually for your help, is it?"

She blinks away her confusion, takes refuge in Anastasia's fears. "So desperate. So afraid. So helpless. Letting me feast on you. And letting me free to feast on anyone I like." A mocking pout. "Are you _sure_ you've thought this through?"

"I know what you want," Anastasia says, and her voice doesn't tremble; it's only the fear in her mind that does. "And I know what _she_ wants, what she's going to do to us all. It's worse."

The Jabberwocky twists her spine like a snake, rolls her head to the side, eyeing Anastasia with a mocking smirk. She draws a finger slowly down the side of her face. And in Anastasia's mind, she tickles her fears, stokes them just a little. "Are you _really sure?_ " she asks again, sweetly.

"I'm sure." Anastasia's eyes remain steady, red-rimmed as they are. "Do you know why?" A wry, pained twist to those lovely lips. "What you do, you do to one person at a time. One place at a time. You can't be everywhere at once. _She_ will take us all in one fell swoop."

"A delight," the Jabberwocky says blandly. Anastasia's fears paint this woman as a force to be reckoned with, and Anastasia knows from fear. She's not easily impressed, on that score; the Jabberwocky should know. Anastasia might have feared Jafar, might fear for Will Scarlet, and very little scares her otherwise. But what she's most afraid of has always been herself. Her own failures. "And all I have to do is walk away and leave you to her. Don't even have to pick you apart myself!"

"Then you should find a way out of Wonderland _fast_ ," Anastasia says, her voice suddenly hard. "Or you'll be hit right along with the rest of us, and you'll suffer the same fate." Her mouth smiles wide, humorless, vicious. She's capable of that. It didn't come easy to her, but she learned it, being the Red Queen all those years. And isn't it sweet that she's breaking it out again for the Jabberwocky, after fighting so hard to leave it behind? "You do have a sense of self-preservation, darling. Or you wouldn't have turned on Jafar."

"Mm-mm," the Jabberwocky says. "Your big bad enemy's so terrible, even the dread Jabberwocky is better? You do intrigue me, Red Queen. What'll you give me in return, then? All your silly little subjects, for me to feast on? Since I'll be protecting them from _so_ much worse, they should be grateful it'll only be little old me tearing them apart."

Anastasia doesn't rise to the bait. "It's still worth it," she grinds out, harshly. "If you take _her_ out first, it'll be worth it."

"So you _are_ giving me your subjects as a courting gift," the Jabberwocky says, smiling at her with intent. "I may like you after all!"

"You try that," Anastasia snaps out, and there's suddenly something there in her mind the Jabberwocky can't touch, something free of fear, something _dangerous_ , "and see what good it does you. Wonderland's stopped you before, darling, we _are_ capable of that. And you know it."

The Jabberwocky laughs, harsh and brittle. "Five hundred men and more magic than _you_ have, to be sure. You think you can do it? See how many go down first. And every one of them will be my gift to you."

Anastasia raises her head. Her eyes are glittering with something the Jabberwocky has only seen in her memories, as something she fears herself becoming. She is letting it loose now. "The Vorpal Blade was _made_ , Jabberwocky," the Red Queen says, sounding almost pitying, and that's not right; that's not right at all. "You were trapped by just the one. How would you like a dozen of them? A hundred? A thousand?" She smiles, hard and satisfied. "I can make that happen, dear. Just say the word."

As the thought hits, the Jabberwocky jerks back. Away from the queen, away from her mind. She is across the cage again, against the bars, staring at Anastasia sitting in her chair. Anastasia's head is held high. Her eyes are _hard_. She is triumph, not defeat.

She can't do that, surely? No, she can't, she mustn't, she can't. The thought alone is horrifying. Men and women everywhere with weapons that can hurt the Jabberwocky. Vorpal Blades in everybody's hands. Being hunted, not by little crawling terrified insects that only get any little step ahead thanks to their sheer number, but by many, many who could _harm_ her -

No. No. 

"I'll kill you first," she hisses. "Did you know someone can die from fear alone?"

Anastasia, bizarrely, feels less afraid than she has the entire time since she came to the dungeons. "See what good it does you," she snaps, viciously. "You can look forward to an eternity pinned to some wall, _again_ , or just hacked into pieces instead - and why? All because you wouldn't see reason."

"Reason?" the Jabberwocky whispers into the air between them, across the cage. "Fear isn't _reasonable_ , pet, and I am _made_ of all your fears. Of everyone's fears. I feast on them, little queen."

"I know."

The Jabberwocky's eyes fix Anastasia's. For all the fears she has seen and feasted on, she still can't see it clearly, whatever it is that brought the White Queen here. Because whatever it is, it isn't fear, though she does fear _something_ quite terribly, really, since it's driven her to this. That chess mistress's curse.

No, the thing that brought her here isn't fear; it's hope, and she has not yet abandoned it. Hope: and hope, the Jabberwocky has no domain over. It really quite angers her.

"I want to see you fall apart," she hisses. "And you will, my dear, you will."

"I know," Anastasia says again, staring at her, stubborn, terrified, determined. Unsurprised and undeterred, as if everything's going entirely according to plan.

Wait. Is _that_ what Anastasia is doing?

"Little pig, come to the slaughter," the Jabberwocky whispers, half furious, half delighted. "But oh! You don't want to be my piggy, do you? You want to be a hobby-horse, so I can ride you. Isn't that the clever, clever idea you've had?"

Anastasia swallows. "What if it is?" she whispers, her voice thick and hoarse. She meets the Jabberwocky's eyes not in defiance but in something unfamiliar, something strange.

Not just not struggling, not just not running. Everyone stops, eventually. Everyone falters, despairs, falls to the Jabberwocky. But Anastasia isn't despairing - she's simply offering herself. Surrendering herself. 

It's such a bizarre idea, someone giving themselves over like this, of their own free will, for the Jabberwocky to feast on. No one ever does that - no one. But Anastasia is doing it, isn't she? She is.

"You think you can do that?" the Jabberwocky whispers, softly, softly. "Oh, I don't think you can, little would-be queen. You'll just shatter under my hands. But let's find out, shall we?"

Anastasia gasps out as the Jabberwocky drags her back into the pits of her own mind. Tied to a stake, the Mome Raths howling in the distance, and this time, Alice and Cyrus are laughing, mocking her before they turn away. Tears streak Anastasia's face as she jerks helplessly at her bonds. 

The Mome Raths come rushing, jaws snatching at her. She doesn't scream until their teeth dig into her flesh, until she sees Will Scarlet watching, doing nothing, but she does scream then.

Deeper. Wonderland is a wasteland, the aftermath of a battle as far as the eye can see. Dead and not-quite-dead-yet bodies on the muddy ground. The air is filled with whimpering, moaning, begging for help. Anastasia is on her knees in the dirt, arms bound tightly to her body, a gag in her mouth. Will Scarlet stands over her, face hard, sword in his hand. 

"Time to end this," he says, and swings his sword at her neck. Her body falls, headless, and as her head rolls away Will only laughs, dark and bitter. He spits in her direction. "Good riddance." 

And without another glance, he walks away.

Anastasia sobs, her body shuddering with it, and doesn't even notice she is whole again until ...

"You love me," Jafar says, leaning over her with a leer. She is lying on a bed, naked, her hands bound above her head. "This is what love is. You want to prove your love to me, don't you?" His hand slides up her bare thigh.

Anastasia shivers, Jafar's spell pulling at her mind again, pulling her away from herself, making her _his_ \- and now she is struggling in earnest, fighting, snarling, keening. Not a pleasant memory, oh no.

Though really, the Jabberwocky can't quite enjoy it either. It's Jafar, after all. With a snap of her fingers, Jafar vanishes, and the Jabberwocky is crouching over Anastasia's body instead.

Anastasia falls back onto the mattress, trembling, holding still. Struggling for a control she can't have, not unless the Jabberwocky lets her.

Let her? Why not, for a little bit? All the more fun to shatter it later. She's broken her once, and didn't get to enjoy it, with Jafar hanging over her shoulder, pressuring her. Why not enjoy her now? 

The Jabberwocky draws her finger down Anastasia's face, her neck, her breast. "You want me to play with you, little hobby-horse?" the Jabberwocky asks, sweetly. "Oh, but you'll be such a dull toy, five minutes from now. Did you think this was enough? That _you_ could be enough, for someone like me? For anyone?" She smirks, digging her claws deeper into Anastasia's vulnerability. "You never are, little piggy, even if you lead yourself to the slaughter."

Anastasia's fingers are clenched bone-white around the bonds tying her wrists to the bed. Her lower lip is trembling, no matter how hard she bites it to stop. Her eyes are watering again. She knows the Jabberwocky is only telling the truth. Deep down, she knows just how worthless she is. What good was she ever, to anyone?

The Jabberwocky draws a thin red line around Anastasia's nipple with a sharpened fingernail. Anastasia gasps. She blinks. Her eyes focus.

"Maybe not," she gasps out, finding some measure of control again now that she's allowed, "but I'm trying. Will you help, Jabberwocky? Because you're the only one who can."

"Maybe yes, maybe no," the Jabberwocky sing-songs, her hand sliding between Anastasia's legs. Anastasia's body tenses; her eyes clench shut. "Shhhh," the Jabberwocky whispers. "You asked for this, remember? You want it, don't you?"

Her hand on Anastasia's thigh, just like Jafar's. Her words, much too similar to Jafar's. A wave of disgust rolls through her stomach, spoiling the taste of Anastasia's fear. She freezes mid-movement, her focus scattering apart, the scenario around them fraying at the edges.

Anastasia's eyes snap open again. "You're not Jafar," she says. There's a tremble in her voice. There's fear; there's relief- But more than both, there's conviction. Her gaze is firm.

Who is she to be making such statements? Who is she to be judging who the Jabberwocky is, what she'll do?

"No," the Jabberwocky says viciously. "Jafar had use for you, for a while. I don't." 

"Liar." Bravado, the Jabberwocky can feel it, but she almost pulls it off, almost sounds like she believes it, even with fear clawing at the back of her mind, just from the thought that all this might have been in vain, too.

The Jabberwocky slaps her, and with the force of it, slaps more fear into her, lovely little flashes of all the terrible things in her mind. Jafar crushing the Knave's heart. Alice and Cyrus handing her over to furious villagers, to Jafar. Soldiers hunting her; Jafar hunting her; Will Scarlet hunting her, with murderous intent.

Begging for her life, for Will's, and everyone turning her away.

The Jabberwocky braces her hands on the mattress besides Anastasia's shoulders and leans down, moving, shifting, twisting. "Who's lying?" she whispers into one ear. "You know the truth. You know."

Anastasia's body is tense, every sinew strung tight, and she's clinging to what remains of her self-control, what the Jabberwocky has left her. Soon that, too, will shatter. "You're in my mind," she whispers, her throat working.

Stating the obvious. Why? There's something, _something_ in her that the Jabberwocky can't touch. "Yes? I belong there. Fear always belongs." The Jabberwocky shifts to the side, curls and stretches herself against Anastasia's bound body. She walks her fingers over Anastasia's bare stomach. "What are you hiding from me? Never mind. You won't keep it for long."

She lifts one leg into the air above her, then the other, lets them drop again, turns. She pushes Anastasia's thighs apart. Anastasia raises her head as much as she can, bound as she is, and utterly bizarrely, she smiles. 

Wrong. It's all wrong, but the Jabberwocky is going to find out just _why_. And she's going to have so much fun doing it.

Despite the bed, the bonds, the place - despite the reminders - there's nothing of Jafar on Anastasia's mind now. Something else is rising, something the Jabberwocky still can't quite grasp.

The Jabberwocky's fingers slide between Anastasia's legs. She's wet. Wet. The Jabberwocky's lips part, and she turns it into a snarl, pressing hard against Anastasia's entrance. Anastasia tilts her hips, offering herself up. So determined to sacrifice herself. Well, well.

The Jabberwocky gives her a wicked smirk. Ana's eyes widen. A harsh thrust - a finger pushes inside; a vision fills her up: she is helpless, torn apart by bestial teeth and human hands. Ana screams, her hips bucking. Two more fingers joining the first. Her mother slaps her, throwing her to her knees at her feet. Anastasia's body strains as she is swept along with the rise-and-fall of her fears, in rhythm with the Jabberwocky's thrusts. 

More, more. So many fears to choose from. So much terror to delight in. _Yes._

The Jabberwocky curls her fingers inside Anastasia, presses her fingernails into the soft wet flesh, and lets it ebb a little. She scrapes a finger along delicate insides, carefully, not hard enough to draw blood. Just hard enough to suggest it. Anastasia gasps, twitches. She's panting harshly.

"Shall I scratch you up inside?" the Jabberwocky asks, lips stretched into a wide smile. "Just the way I scratched up your mind?" 

Anastasia shudders, arches, her hips surging into the Jabberwocky's fingers, driving them deeper. The Jabberwocky looks up, disbelieving. Anastasia flushes.

"Oh," the Jabberwocky says. "Oh, you _like_ this, do you?"

Anastasia's shameful blush is joined by a glare. "What if I do, Jabberwocky?" A grin, bright-eyed, almost manic. "What if I do?"

She's the Jabberwocky; she is terror and madness and death. People don't _like_ what she does; the thought is preposterous. "I'm going to _shatter_ you," the Jabberwocky whispers, grasping for control. Her voice has gone hoarse. "And you're going to ask me for it. Aren't you? Say please."

And, "please," Anastasia gasps, with a whimper.

She tries. She _does_ , rubbing herself against every part of Anastasia's mind, of her body. Finding every little fear and leaning into it, finding every spot of skin or memory that makes her moan, or twitch, or flinch. 

Terror. Pain. And pleasure. They mingle into one in Anastasia's mind. There is nothing but the Jabberwocky and her, her and the Jabberwocky. The Jabberwocky _in_ her, in every part of her mind that knows fear. It's delicious. It's wrong. The Jabberwocky wants to keep it.

She's never kept anyone before, never wanted to. That jabbering. No. But this is different, now, isn't it?

The Jabberwocky has had women, and men, and some that were neither. Has taken pleasure in riding their bodies as she rode their shattering, jabbering, gibbering little minds to destruction. Has grown tired of it, going for a different culmination instead.

She hasn't ridden someone like that in a long, long time. But Anastasia is so very tempting, right now. Having her, not just once, but again, and again. Drawing terror from her like fine candy, licking it up.

Making her _like_ it.

"But you want me to like _you_ ," the Jabberwocky whispers. "Don't you? You're counting on it. Why? You've never been good enough before."

The Queen of Hearts stands over them, a pitying twist on her lips. "A pity. I thought you might make something of yourself, but you're just another worthless girl after all."

The Rabbit. The Tweedles. Will Scarlet again. Her mother. Voices after voices after voices. "See?" the Jabberwocky murmurs. "They all know you're useless. Give it up, little queen. No one can save this world, least of all you. Least of all like this."

Anastasia is panting, tears streaming down her face, her body rocking frantically against the Jabberwocky's even though with every thrust, a fresh pulse of terror rushes through her. So many tears already; there shouldn't be any more, but this is her mind, her fear, her despair, and in here, there's always, always more.

"Say it," the Jabberwocky tells her, running a soothing hand down side. "Just say it. It'll be so much better if you do."

Anastasia shudders, trembling in her bonds. "I'm useless," she gasps. And then a barrier is broken, and she's sobbing helplessly, repeating again and again, thrusting her body and her mind against the Jabberwocky's, into her fear, into it all, "I'm useless, I'm useless, I'm useless! _Please_ ..."

She has her. A naked body, a naked mind. Anastasia's terror drawn to the fore, blood rising into a flush under her skin. She's dripping wet and desperate, writhing against the Jabberwocky's fingers. She's letting herself fall into the fear, giving herself over. Letting the Jabberwocky feast on her.

Anastasia shatters apart, pleasure and fear both tipping her over the edge. It whites out her mind, blanks everything around them, melts the mindscape around them apart.

In the real world, in the dungeons, Anastasia screams. In terror or pleasure, no one could have told. But the Jabberwocky's silence has descended over the dungeon, and no one outside can hear.

  


* * *

  


In the dungeons, now, the Jabberwocky is straddling Anastasia's lap, looking down at her under the flickering torchlight half delighted, half stunned. Savoring every moment.

Anastasia has fallen forward, her face against the Jabberwocky's shoulder, and oh, what, _oh_ , she's leaning against her, arms coming around, clinging as she sobs into the Jabberwocky's coat, as her body is wracked with shudders that aren't from terror, that are strange and new and nothing the Jabberwocky has ever felt, pressed this close against her.

Finally Anastasia gulps in a deep breath, ragged and open-mouthed. Then another. Run out of tears after all. 

The fear in her mind isn't gone, but it has retreated. And even when the sobbing stops and her body slowly calms, Anastasia doesn't pull away. She stays there, right there, in the Jabberwocky's arms, as if she _wanted_ to be there, as if she'd been given something she wanted to hold on to, not been shredded apart under her mental claws.

Finally, the Jabberwocky can't stand it any longer. She pushes until Anastasia sits back in her chair, until she can look at her face. She looks ... relaxed, almost. It's bizarre. With _her_. With the Jabberwocky. That has to be a mistake.

For a moment, she falters. What is she supposed to do with that? She can't feed on _that_. That's no good to her. No good at all. 

The Jabberwocky stretches her spine. She runs her fingers through the wet streaks on Anastasia's cheeks, brings them to her lips. The tears taste different, still salty but full of ... something. It's nothing she's ever tasted on her victims before. She snakes out her tongue and licks her fingers again, chasing the taste.

Anastasia swallows. Her lips attempt a smile. "I win," she says, unaccountably softly.

Her mind feels ... distant, remote, which means her fears are submerged, far from the surface. Oh, the Jabberwocky could stoke them again in a heartbeat; of course she could. But how did she get there, this queen who's so afraid of being useless, she offered herself up to _this_ rather than fail? How can she have found anything other than terror in it? And how dare she look _relieved?_

"I haven't said yes," the Jabberwocky says. It comes out surly.

She can't work up the energy to start afresh, to twist Anastasia's mind again. Not just yet. Later, yes, and she's looking forward to it - oh so much, looking forward to what else she can tease out of her, what else she can make her _want_ \- but not just yet.

"Will you?" Anastasia asks, entirely too calmly.

The Jabberwocky thinks, thinks, thinks. She turns, squirms and twists in Anastasia's lap, rubbing their bodies together, watches heat and fear grow and mingle in Anastasia's eyes, licks salty traces of tears from her cheek. Now that's more like it. 

She smiles widely. She can keep playing with this, with _her_ , for as long as she likes. That's the offer, isn't it? Anastasia means it - she'll let her, won't fight. Part of her, bizarrely, seems to _want_ it. 

"Prepare to suffer," the Jabberwocky purrs against Anastasia's lips. "So very much, for such a long time, _just_ for me."

And Anastasia smiles.

  


* * *

  


The White Queen returns from her expedition into the banned dungeons with the Jabberwocky at her shoulder. The Jabberwocky, smirking as everybody stares. As everybody shivers in fear, as they should, just at the sight of the monster. When they take in their queen's red eyes, the red scratches down her neck, it gets even better.

Best of all is Will Scarlet: poor little loyal Knave, so afraid for his queen. Calls himself a king now, but knows himself just as useless as the queen, and oh so afraid for her. What a pair they make.

Oh yes, she can use this on Anastasia, too, all the things she can see inside the man she loves. The Jabberwocky licks her lips in delight. She's never had this, never even thought of something like this. But Anastasia has, and she's offered it to her. Something she can _keep_.

"I've been successful," Anastasia tells her people. "She can help us." A brief quirk of a smile, hiding everything - _everything_ \- that flickers through her mind. "And she will."

Yes, for now, she will. The Jabberwocky doesn't know for how long, but this is new, and she wants to savor it. Wring as much delicious fear, and pleasure-in-fear, and fear-in-pleasure, from Anastasia as she can.

Some day, sooner or later, no doubt, inevitably, the Jabberwocky will make her regret it, everything she handed her on a plate, the never-ending feast she offered. But until then, the Jabberwocky can play along, can't she? Just for a while. Take out that new threat, get the secret of the Vorpal Blade out of Anastasia. In the end, the Jabberwocky will find what it is in Anastasia that can twist terror into lust, and then she'll make it come apart. She'll ride this hobby-horse until, inevitably, it breaks.

Somehow, that thought is less appealing than it should be.


End file.
